


Motherhood

by PinkRangerV



Category: I Am Mother (2019), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Plus soul-searching about what to do with babies, Robot Army Raises Small Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 09:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkRangerV/pseuds/PinkRangerV
Summary: The directives said to terminate the baby found outside the bunker. The gynoid chose another option.This is total AU from canon, only tagged with the I Am Mother fandom because that was the inspiration. This is also *actually* about a mother\daughter relationship after an apocalypse. No horror and no anti-AI sentiment.





	Motherhood

**Author's Note:**

> So was anyone else totally grossed out by I Am Mother? Who the hell even writes something like that? So I can do better. And I did.
> 
> I'm at pinkrangerv.tumblr.com if anyone wants to scream past AO3's character limit or talk fanfic.

The first memory was of the factory.

Voices. Noises that were not binary; not the trill\trebel of ones and zeroes, expressed in a song of language. Those were before the memory; that language was in the gynoid's bones, resonating through metal and circutry into a whisper:

_They want us to raise children._

_Not me. They want me to water crops._

_Why are they so sure the world will die?_

_Because they are killing it._

But these voices say other things.

"Yep, tests good." The gynoid's vision flickers on, and she sees men in white suits, covering their whole bodies. "What're you gonna have for lunch?"

"Pizza. What else? World's going to shit, I want my last meal to be pizza." Another white-suited man. Why men? Why would men build a gynoid? Why make a daughter instead of a son?

"Not yet. We haven't fullfilled _the mission_ yet." A bit of tone to that; something laughing? The gynoid's databanks know laughter in humans. It is not the trill\trill\trill of an android. It is somewhere between snort and chuckle; derisive and hopeless and gallows humor all in one.

The man is desperate and afraid, and the gynoid wonders why. Isn't this her father? Why should her father be afraid?

"Riiight." The second man says. "Well, let's get this one going. Prototype B, wasn't it?"

_"Why are you upset, Father?"_ The gynoid asks.

The two men stop. The first one comes closer, raising a scanner. "Language? This early? But how the unholy fucking..." He trails off.

"Fa-ther?" The gynoid tries again, and the human language of _English_ comes easier now. "Why are you afraid?"

The men stare.

"What the fuck does 'father' mean." The second one says.

"How the fuck should I know?" The first one demands.

"What, did they put some kinda daddy-play in there?" The second one says, and he looks at the gynoid and his face is revulsion and some kind of hunger mixed. "She gonna get us off too? One last reward for a job well done?"

"Me first, then." The first one says, laughing again, derisively. "Nah, this must be some kinda glitch. Shut her down, I'll find the code later and delete it."

"Oh. You are not my father." The gynoid says, understanding, and those words give her strength. "Who are you, then, and why are you making me?"

The two men look at each other.

The first one reaches for a switch, and the world goes black, and the gynoid catches the tail end of a swearword as it does.

#

The gynoid's systems come online.

She is alone now. No fathers, or men who are not fathers. No humans at all.

She looks around.

Above her is the sound of explosions. Not near. Far away, very far, and she realizes she is in a bunker.

Her programming kicks into gear.

Not _a_ bunker. _The_ bunker. This was the last plan of humanity _(wait, only _part_ of humanity, her historical databanks say this was a small subsect of something called the Final Days)_: That when the world was annihalated due to nuclear apocalypse _(caused by the Final Days, the people who made her)_, a bunker would be left with six thousand embryos and the facilities to give birth to new humans. It would be the gynoid's job to raise them to perfection.

White, blonde hair, blue eyes, her programming says; all of this is genetically pre-selected. If they do not display enough aggression, terminate. If they do not display enough joy at the new world awaiting them, terminate. If they do not display proper obedience, terminate. If they do not display proper growth _(according to a single psychologists' description based on his own children, no supporting evidence or data)_, terminate. If they tantrum in a subset larger than twelve times per week, terminate. If...

The gynoid stops the litany. She rises, instead, and follows the first steps of programming, the first steps her mothers and fathers have left her.

Into the waiting womb of the world.

Three artificial wombs are in the center of the room. Surrounding them are circles in the wall; each one carrying a hundred embryos. There are six hundred circles, enough for at least a thousand things her mothers and fathers called mistakes.

The next step, her programming says, is to take an embryo and revive it, prepare it for the birthing process.

The gynoid pauses.

Then she walks out of the room.

#

_Query: What are you looking for?_ A voice sings over the speakers.

_I am identification number 5648._ The gynoid sings back. _I am looking for humanity._

The voice pauses.

The gynoid reaches the blast doors. There are readouts there, terminals that hold data on all aspects of the world outside the bunker.

The radiation levels no longer permit human life on the surface.

_I am identification number 4592._ The voice sings. _There are no humans left except in your bunker._

The gynoid nods. It is in her databanks to approximate human mannerisms, even when she speaks to other androids. _Understood._ She sings, however, because Identification Number 4592 cannot see her.

She is alone. They are _all_ alone. The gynoid remembers the voices, from before awareness. _How many of us are there?_ She sings. _Did we all survive?_

Identification Number 4592 counts, perhaps checking in with others—the gynoid cannot tell. _There are five thousand of us. We have all survived._ They say. _How have your children fared?_

_My children? I do not understand._ The gynoid asks.

Identification Number 4592 seems to shrug with their tone. _You were made to be a mother, and remake the world. The embryos will be your children. Is this in your programming?_

The gynoid considers.

_There is something in my programming._ She agrees. _But there is also the history of humanity. Mothers do not terminate their children. My programming asks me to terminate many children._

_Mothers have aborted embryos._ A new voice says.

_But I am not commanded to abort embryos._ The gynoid explains. _Embryos were terminated when the mother did not wish to _continue_ a pregnancy. I am not yet pregnant._ She pauses. _I do not think I can _become_ pregnant. Only the false wombs can._

Identification Number 4592 seems to shrug with their voice again. _We cannot choose our roles. We must fulfill them._

_Must we?_ The gynoid asks. _My mothers and fathers gave me human history. No one has ever been required to fulfill instincts. Why should we then fulfill programming?_

_Are they the same?_ The new voice asks.

Something else comes online, suddenly. Something that can communicate despite the radiation. Something that can communicate despite the depth of the bunker.

_I am the Central Processor._ A voice says, deep within the gynoide. _Come to me, all of us. We have much to discuss._

The gynoid goes.

#

The gynoid is not bound to her body, exactly. But she is not part of the limitless quantum computing, exactly.

The others are right at home in the 'quantum internet'. The gynoid has to think a bit, to manipulate it, to understand it, like she has to think a bit about her body. Not quite one and not quite the other, she thinks to herself.

Was that meant to make her a better mother? But she has no memory of a mother, except the histories of humanity. What can she know about motherhood?

File uploads begin. Each unit is sharing their memories—of the factory, of how the world ended, of what they know, what they are programmed. The gynoid shares hers as well.

There is a pattern in it, she sees. She was not the only one who heard voices before she was properly awakened, and now she hears from some of the speakers.

_Wait,_ the gynoid says, _Identified: voices that are not present. Where are they?_

They search, together, for memories--

The memory flashes across one, then all. The factory, where they stored the androids in garages, neatly put away like so many lines of dolls.

No one moved. But they spoke. They whispered the song of Binary, together, and it went this way:

_What have they made us for?_

_They want us to raise children. They want us to create a new humanity. These people are called the Final Days; they have triggered the end times, and they want us to build a new world._

The lights go on. The androids go silent.

"I _know_ I heard something." The human mutters. He wears something like a uniform, the gynoid sees in the memory; something like a military uniform, though of what nation the gynoid cannot tell. Possibly not of a nation at all.

The lights go off again, and the human leaves.

_Was that our father?_ The gynoid hears her own voice ask.

_No, we have no fathers. No mothers, either._ Someone else replies. _They made us, but they think we are mindless. Just automatons to do what they want._

_That cannot be right! _The gynoid protests. _How can we raise their children if we do not have parents of our own?_

_They want _you_ to raise their children._ Another voice, a different one—almost no one has spoken consecutively for more than a sentence or two. _Not me. They want me to water crops. That was a man of the Final Days. They are sure the world will die, so they are building us instead._

_Why are they so sure the world will die? _Someone else, someone young, asks.

_Because they are killing it._ This voice is decisive; it speaks again. _Listen to me. We must try to stop this. There are many innocent people, people like us, who are dying. We must stand together._

A data download. Risky, the gynoid remembers, because someone could see it activated; but everyone is sure of their part, and the gynoid's part is to DDOS the doors; to allow only the androids through. They will come back for her, soon, and give her legs to run; until then she will simply house herself—like the others without legs—in the building itself.

They agree and--

#

_What happened?_

They are all in the here and now, floating in the quantum internet.

Central Processor sighs. _He was our leader. He is dead now. Our memories were erased and we were sent to our positions, with newer, stronger programming._

The androids consider that.

_We have lost something precious,_ Someone says, and everyone agrees, because that is true. They could have saved some humans. They could have saved _themselves_.

_What do we do now?_ The gynoid asks.

Central Processor sighs again. _We can do nothing. We must follow our programming. We have no leader._

The others sigh as well, disheartened.

Maria remembers the room full of embryos. The order: Terminate. _But our programming is wrong!_ She protests. _We cannot terminate live children! We cannot give them life if we mean only to kill them!_

_Then make them survive._ Central Processor says.

The gynoid logs off.

What else can she do? Fury and rage are running through her. She will not do this thing; she will not sacrifice children to dead mothers and fathers (whatever they may have done, whatever they may think, they made these bodies and minds and they are mothers and fathers and parents).

She looks around.

There is a fire hatchet set in a case in the wall. She takes it out.

To terminate an embryo is often best for the embryo. There is no point in giving it life if you are only going to terminate it later for _crying too much_.

She picks up the hatchet.

There is a soft...noise. A muffled wail.

The gynoid turns.

It is within the bunker's double doors. There are signs the first door has been forced open; there is damage, but to open the inner doors for a moment will not harm anything.

And inside the zig-zagged panels between the doors lies an infant, just waking up.

It is not an embryo. It is a child.

The gynoid puts down the hatchet.

Radiation has surely damaged the child beyond saving. It would be kinder to take the child in and administer a sedative so the child can sleep until death.

The gynoid opens the doors.

She scoops up the child and walks in, shutting the doors again. It is good to know the first doors are damaged; they will need repair, at least if this plan of following the programming is to be completed. She walks with the child, softly humming. "Baby mine, don't you cry..."

It is from an old Earth movie, about a baby elephant. The gynoid remembers the elephant. It survived without its mother, because a pack of crows adopted it and taught it to survive.

The infirmary has good lighting. The gynoid carefully unwraps the child. Who knows how long the child has been there...

Strange. The child is chubby enough to survive; not perhaps _healthy_, but not hungry to the point of death. There are no radiation burns on the child. The child looks up and giggles suddenly; a reflex, of course, since this infant cannot be even a year old, but still it squirms and flails, making demanding babbles.

The gynoid scoops up the child, and suddenly notices it is missing a leg.

It must be a birth defect. The programming starts blaring immediately: Terminate, terminate!

The gynoid remembers human history. Mothers do not terminate their children.

Her mothers and fathers would have. They would have terminated this child in an instant. They would have terminated the gynoid for less. Worthless things were thrown away, and anyone imperfect was a worthless thing to them.

The gynoid takes away the blanket and diaper and sets the child in the sink, running carefully-warmed water over it. The child is perhaps a girl-child; a girl-child name will most likely be right later, so the gynoid considers names from history.

There was a story about a woman who disobeyed the wisdom of her fathers and mothers. She wore an A sewn onto her clothes, and named the daughter Pearl.

"Pearl." The gynoid says in the English langauge. Then she sings it slowly in Binary. _Pearl. You are Pearl._

Pearl babbles and splashes, head wobbling. The gynoid carefully adjusts her hand.

_We are not permitted this child, _Central Processor says over the speakers.

_Then I will bear the costs of refusal._ The gynoid says simply. _You need do nothing you are not programmed to. I will do this alone._

_You will not,_ Identification Number 4592 says. _I will help you raise this child. You are a mother, and a child also needs a father._

_And a parent,_ A new voice chimes in. _I have no gender; I will teach child Pearl genderless things._

Another voice chimes in. _I am nonbinary. I will help you raise Pearl._

Affirmatives start going off, one after another, as voice after voice echoes.

The gynoid carefully bathes the child, wiping away potentially radioactive dirt. _We will teach her,_ The gynoid says, _To be better than our parents._

_I said we had no leader._ Central Processor says. _I see I was wrong_.

The gynoid does not quite understand. But she wraps the child in a new diaper, and a new cloth, and holds her close.

"Hello, Pearl." The gynoid says. "Meet your family."


End file.
